


everything that ever happened to me that was important happened in the desert

by propinquitous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Childhood/Adolescence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, M/M, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: The desert raised Keith, gave him his hopes and loves and future. He carries it with him always.(four stories about Keith’s life in the desert. relationships take place at different times.)





	1. Chapter 1

The wind whips around the house and through the sage and scrubby brush as Keith runs out the door. The sun catches in his eyes and he squints into it, scanning the horizon.

It’s late spring and outside, the weather is perfect. There are no clouds blocking the view, save a few wispy tendrils that float out over the mountains. There is no lightning like in late summer, when the static is practically tangible and makes Keith's hair stand on end. The April rains have passed and the sun is out; there’s no threat of a dust storm to the north. Somehow, it’s not even that hot yet. 

“Hang on, kiddo,” his dad says, tugging him back into the house. “Still gotta put on sunscreen.” Keith hops up and down impatiently as Dad slathers the cream on his arms, the back of his neck, over his cheeks and the shells of his ears. Keith scrunches up his nose and whines, “That’s good! I’m ready!”. The cream is cold and oily and it smells like coconut, and Keith _hates_ coconut. Dad finally releases his arm and Keith bolts for the door.

“All right, go hop in the truck. I’ve just gotta get the stuff,” Dad says. Keith runs back outside and jumps in the cab, bounces in his seat until Dad emerges with a backpack and two camp chairs slung over his back. In his left hand, he carries a telescope, one big hand wrapped around the barrel. No one is as strong as Keith’s dad, no one can carry all of those supplies, can carry people out of burning houses. Keith hopes he’ll be strong like him one day.

The backpack and chairs clatter as they land in the bed of the truck. Dad opens the door, scoots in and rests the telescope in the middle seat.

“Make sure it doesn’t fall, okay?” he asks Keith as he starts the car, gets one foot on the clutch and shifts the car into first.

Keith holds onto the telescope with reverence and the truck shudders to life. They've been stargazing lately; most nights in the desert are clear and cool and the Garrison abides by strict light pollution protocols. From the roof of their house, they can see for miles. The sky is dark and the bands of the Milky Way stretch endless across the sky before tucking beneath the horizon. It makes Keith think of the way his toes curl underneath his blankets at night.

Dad had started small, taught him where to look for Polaris and and what it meant to know its location. Keith knows how to find Andromeda and Orion and the Pleiades now, but the dippers are still the easiest to find. He's learned that he likes Leo best and he makes Dad tell him the story of how brave Hercules fought the lion, whose golden fur was like armor, every time they take the telescope onto the roof. Sometimes, Dad tells him that his mom loved Aquila, the eagle, that she had all her own stories for the constellations. He looks sad when he tells Keith about it.

The truck bumps along over the dirt road that leads off the property, rocks pinging up into the wheel wells. Keith struggles to crank the window down with one hand as he keeps the telescope secure. He gets it open enough to stick his head out and smiles into the wind and the familiar sting of the dust at the corners of his eyes as the truck picks up speed.

The landscape is familiar, comforting to Keith. The road cuts between mountains and hills, leaving jagged slabs of limestone and granite exposed. Dad says they used dynamite back in the day to build these roads, explained how they had to blast apart the rock in barely controlled bursts of nitroglycerin. Keith likes to imagine it, how the rocks must have flown in the air, how some of the smaller shrubs must have caught fire in the aftermath. Dad promises it was as cool as it sounds, and Keith suspects it was _awesome._

They turn onto the highway after a few minutes and the truck gently accelerates. Occasionally a jackrabbit appears alongside them on the road before veering off into the brush, looking for shelter or food. Keith keeps his eye out for the blurry rush of roadrunners and holds steady to the telescope as he watches small rock formations slide by in slow motion. He kicks his heel anxiously against the seat. They drive for a while, maybe half an hour, though for Keith it could be five minutes or three hours. He doesn’t know quite how time passes yet. He does know that he is seven and a half years old, and that today is launch day.

Dad takes exit 83 and navigates the truck up the winding path that leads to the mesa, whistling tunelessly as they go. It’s five miles from the Garrison but Dad promised that they’d be able to see the launch - the Calypso is massive, and the explosion the rockets will generate at takeoff means they have to keep a bigger distance than they did when they watched the orbital and lunar missions, to keep from hurting their ears. Dad had explained it all to him, how it will have over 25 million pounds of thrust, how the explosion at liftoff will span a quarter of a mile. It will take the rocket at least three years to reach the outer edges of the solar system, to get Jupiter in their sights. Keith has it all memorized because he presented on it at show and tell last Friday, riveting his classmates with the possibilities of space flight, whizzing around the classroom with his model rocket.

The truck stalls a little on the last climb, tires spinning in the gravel. His dad shifts down and guns it and Keith barely keeps his grip on the telescope as the truck pitches forward. He lets out a startled _oof_ as Dad throws an arm across this chest to stop him from flying forward; he’s still too short for the seatbelt.

“You okay, bud?” he asks. Keith nods, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Are we almost there?”

“Just about, kiddo.” He turns the steering wheel right as they reach a plateau and brings the truck around to the center, a plume of dust left behind him. He pulls around so that the driver’s side faces out east, toward the Garrison, and shifts the truck into park. “Ready?” he asks, and Keith is scrambling out of the cab before he’s even unbuckled his seat belt.

“Careful!” Dad calls out after him. Keith is already tumbling toward the bluff’s edge with the telescope clutched to his chest.

“I didn’t do anything!” he insists. The barrel pushes into his skinny chest as he runs. He wrestles with the tripod, yanking at the joints to pull the legs of the scope out and balance it on the rocks. He doesn’t quite get the last leg out and looks on in terror as it starts to topple over, but then Dad is over him, righting it. 

“Hang on. We don’t want to scratch anything,” he says as he extends the leg, pushes the foot into the gravel. Keith watches as his big hands twist and tighten it into place. “Go grab the bag, would you, kiddo?” Keith nods and sprints back to the truck as quickly as he’d left it.

The tailgate falls open with a whine and he climbs into the bed to survey their supplies, wonders if he should try to carry the chairs, too. They're heavy but they have shoulder straps. Keith decides he can do it. He straps the backpack to his front and slings a chair over each shoulder, barely counter balancing himself as he jumps down off the tailgate. His shoes crunch against the sand and rocks with each step.

“Whoa there, big guy,” his dad says, laughing. “You gonna be able to carry all that?”

“Yeah, Dad, I got it,” Keith insists. His dad monitors his progress, arms crossed, as he makes the 15 foot journey. Keith teeters a little with each step and thinks that this is what dinosaurs must've felt like, all awkward limbs and bulbous parts. Dad lifts the chairs off his shoulders, one in each hand, and tosses them on the ground to take the backpack.

“All right, let's see what we've got here,” Dad says. Keith peers into the bag when he unzips it. Inside, he sees a bright, woven blanket, with a few cellophane wrapped sandwiches and a canteen squeezed alongside it. Dad pulls the blanket out and shakes it out before laying it down in the dust near the telescope. He yanks the chairs out of their covers and sets them to rest on the blanket.

Keith digs a pair of binoculars out of the bottom of the bag.

“How long until the launch?” Keith asks as he fumbles to focus. Through the binoculars, he can just make out the orange shapes of Garrison mechanics around the base of the shuttle, the way they scurry around performing last minute checks. The grey letters on the starboard side of the ship are just visible. “C-a-l-y-p-s-o,” Keith reads, each letter articulated.

“We've got about another hour or two. Depends if they're on schedule,” Dad says as he glances up from his watch.

Keith nods. He looks back through the binoculars and imagines what the astronauts must be feeling. Are they excited? Are they scared? No one has ever gone this deep into space before, no one's even tried. Aren’t they going to miss their families, their dads and moms and children? It makes Keith a little sad, thinking about seeing his dad through com panels for so long.

Keith settles down in the camp chair and Dad wraps his big canvas jacket around his shoulders. He gets ready to wait.

-

The warning sirens startle Keith awake. They start as a low whine, pitching up and up. Keith stands up and stretches. The sun is bright in his bleary eyes.

“Is it time?” he asks. Dad smiles and nods at the telescope and Keith jumps toward it.

Through the telescope, Keith can see the lights flashing at the base of the rocket, around the doors that lead back to the command center. He imagines the awe of getting caught next to the rockets as they fire, how the flames would fall down all around and trap him. It makes him shiver.

If he holds his breath, he can just hear the countdown. His heart starts beating wildly in anticipation, speeds up as the voice counts down toward ten, when Keith knows the main engines will fire.

He looks up from the telescope toward his dad, who watches through the binoculars. He's smiling a little and it feels like Keith has walked in on a private conversation between grown ups, even though they're alone. It makes him feel embarrassed. He turns back to the telescope before Dad can see him and refocuses on the launch.

The first explosions are bright yellow as the roar of the engines begins. It starts as a dull fuzz in the distance, so faint that Keith can barely hear it. It quickly gets louder, louder as Keith watches, as he sees the plumes of smoke start to rise up and the flames turn a vibrant orange. They match the shade of the desert and Keith imagines the flames licking upward against the bluffs until they solidify into their own formations.

Keith thinks, that will be me one day. He wants to be in that rocket, feel the rush as the thrusters fire. He imagines the fog on the visor from his breath, how the seats would rumble underneath him. The straps would pull against his chest as the increasing gravity weighed him down. He imagines exiting the atmosphere, the way the world would suddenly look clear and blue beneath him, the way the universe would open up, expansive, endless, ahead. 

He doesn't know how he'll get there, but as well as he knows his birthday and the spelling of his name, he knows he'll fly in space.

Now the sirens are completely swallowed by the sounds of the rockets firing. It's almost time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few songs that I listened to a lot while writing these - for this chapter it was Abigail Washburn’s [Red & Blazing](https://youtu.be/zJwQSeckRK0).
> 
> thanks for indulging in this with me! the title was taken from The English Patient; i imagine tags will change a bit as the chapters are posted.
> 
> (even though it looks more like arizona, i always imagine that the garrison is out in west texas or the new mexican border, especially since keith’s dad has that accent.)
> 
> [tumblr](http://propinquitous.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

The cafeteria has the best roof in the whole base. It's wide, flat, and there's a massive HVAC unit to lean against and hide behind, if necessary. Keith learned about it within his first month at the Garrison. He had been so used to being alone that the constant chatter of his roommates had made him feel anxious, almost itchy. At the group home, he'd at least had his own room, a small gift of privacy that Keith supposes was meant to compensate for his lack of family.

At the Garrison, he shares a room in the barracks with three other boys and it's fine, most of the day. Still, especially after days spent cramped in the sim, he desperately wants to be alone. It hadn't taken him long to find a fire exit that led to the roof. He'd reveled in the relative silence of cicadas and the desert wind rushing through the valleys that stretched beyond the base. Three months into life at the Garrison, and it was the first time he'd really felt calm. Like he belonged somewhere.

Tonight, the breeze is cool on his face. It tangles in his hair and makes his uniform billow in the back. The dunes are blue and grey in the distance, moonlight reflecting off the cliffs, and the moon itself hangs silver and half full above it all. He thinks about his roof back home, where he could always find Andromeda this time of year. This view isn't so different.

It's November and he's been at the Garrison now for a little over a year. He’s grateful to be here but he’s not sure that anyone would believe him. Most days, he feels like he’s getting the hang of it. He’s learned how to navigate the other students, learned which professors cold call and which will let him slip by. Shiro has helped him, made him feel like a part of things. He’s taught him how to react less quickly, less angrily to everything.

Still, today didn't go to plan - he'd just wanted to get through the simulator and go to tutoring. Shiro promised that he'd take him out on his hoverbike if he could bring his grades up, and he's only one good essay score away from wrangling a B+ in English, one decent quiz away from an A in geometry. He hadn't meant to start shit in the sim, he really hadn't. He knows that no one would believe him, but he is really trying to reign his attitude in, to make good on his promises to Shiro. He can’t help it that he gets so bored in those rote formations, with only moving his ship by fractions of a degree. No one likes him, anyway.

His knuckles are bruised from the hit. He marvels that he didn’t break something; it wasn’t a good cross, sloppy and furious. Keith has punched people before but he feels guilty about this one in a way he wouldn't have expected. There's no reason to hate Griffin, he supposes, not really. If Keith is honest with himself, he can acknowledge that they should be natural friends. Flight partners, even. But he almost broke his hand on Griffin’s face today.

_Well that tracks._

It’s just that he wasn’t ready for the wound Griffin dug into. Most of the time, Keith can ignore it. He doesn’t miss his mom in a way that he can articulate; he can’t remember her enough to do so. But his dad was present for years, long enough for Keith to make memories, to build small caches and shrines to hold them. For Griffin to talk about his parents like his dad didn’t raise him, wasn’t there for birthdays and first days of school, like he didn’t tuck him into bed when he was little, read him stories and sound out the words - it infuriates Keith. His dad was there and his dad loved him, even if no one else ever will.

Suddenly, there’s a loud creak. After a beat Keith realizes it's the fire escape door opening, but he’s too far away from the HVAC to scuttle behind it. He’s been in enough trouble today, though, so he flops onto his elbows and knees and scrambles toward cover, hoping that the shadows hide him. _This is so stupid_ , he thinks. He’s been in the clear for maybe two hours and he’s already on the cusp of getting into trouble again. He doesn't think being caught on the roof is enough to get him in too deep, but after today, after what Shiro saved him from, he isn't sure. His mind starts racing. Maybe he does rely too much on Shiro’s protection, maybe Griffin was right, maybe he should’ve gotten exp-

“Keith?” the voice almost echoes across the roof, a shout in a canyon. Keith grits his teeth and ducks his head, like maybe his hair will blend in with the darkness enough for the rest of him.

“Keith, I know you’re up here. You think you’re sneaky but you’re not,” this time the voice says enough that Keith recognizes it. It’s Griffin.

Cursing to himself, he groans, sliding down onto his belly. He lets his face fall and wills himself to merge with the gravel that covers the rooftop. He is one with the gravel. He is a stone. He is dirt. He is invisible.

He waits for a full minute, almost holding his breath, willing Griffin to leave, to not see the bright orange of his uniform in the dark.

This is so, so stupid.

“What do you want?” he mumbles, brushing gravel off his knees. Today couldn’t possibly get any worse. So he stands and turns to face the boy he hurt.

“Hey,” Griffin says, and Keith winces. He sounds almost nice, like a friend, like someone who trusts Keith. His voice is too deep and Keith wonders if he’s working his way through puberty faster than everyone else. Lucky bastard.

“Hey,” Keith parrots. “Can I help you?” He winces again, feeling increasingly embarrassed, awkward, and every other uncomfortable thing that makes his skin run hot and his stomach roil. He takes a few steps toward Griffin. There’s no sense hiding now.

“Not really,” Griffin says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, uh, whatever it was you were doing up here.”

Keith shrugs. “Just thinking.” Griffin pushes his bangs back and Keith’s heart thuds a little, uncertain. He doesn’t know what Griffin wants but he’s almost certain he’s not interested in finding out. A rematch? An apology?

An apology isn’t totally unreasonable, he decides.

“Sorry I hit you,” Keith mumbles. It’s almost a question.

Griffin touches his bruised cheek and grins, lopsided. “It’s okay. I deserved it.” He shrugs like Keith only shoved him or anything less violent than what he did. He could have broken something, could have given Griffin more than just a bruise and few scratches. It makes Keith miserable to imagine it.

“No, I was a dick. I just-“

“Keith,” Griffin says, insistent, and takes a deep, steady breath.

Keith's stomach does a flip as he waits for him to speak. This feels like something important, like something is shifting. He vaguely wonders if it’s just the ground, if maybe the cafeteria ceiling is caving in and he’s about to land in a cold vat of old fry oil. His hands shake.

“I didn’t know about your parents,” Griffin finally says, his voice unsteady, “I’m sorry. It was crappy. I know Iverson told me to apologize, I mean, I know you know that, but I really am. Sorry. I was just. Mad I guess.” Griffin pauses, bites his lip before he blurts, “Why don’t you ever want to work with us? We could be a great team.”

Keith is frozen. This is too much at once. Griffin apologizing like he means it, like it’s not just something he has to do to please Iverson - the way he asked his question as if he really wants to know the answer - it all does something to Keith that he can’t comprehend. Up until now, Shiro has been the only one to push him, to make him answer for his actions. He can’t wrap his head around anyone else wanting to know him.

He doesn’t owe Griffin anything but he opens his mouth to speak, anyway.

He says, “It doesn’t matter,” like it means something. Griffin stares at him, then, a little agape. Keith can’t meet his gaze, can’t figure out what he wants. An explanation? Reassurance? Another apology? It feels like a weight in his chest. He wants to be open with James, with everyone. But there’s a dam there, some set of walls he’s never really thought about but instinctively knows he keeps. He thinks pathetically of a hard chocolate shell, of a jawbreaker. God, when was the last time he had any candy?

None of this makes any sense.

He feels his jaw quiver, James’ eyes on him with too much certainty for a fifteen year old boy. Something is spiraling out of Keith’s control. He feels like he’s losing his grip on the taut cord that connects him to a world where things make sense, where he and Griffin are rivals and Shiro is his only friend. There’s nothing to say but I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you, I wanted to be your friend, but the words won’t come out. Keith’s throat hurts. 

“Look, Keith-“ 

“Please, it’s fine,” Keith begs. He folds to sit down on the ledge. He feels pathetic and small. He wishes he could build a chrysalis, emerge in a few years in a form no one will recognize.

James sits down beside him, legs dangling off the edge. He bumps his knee against Keith, presses back once, twice, and then stays, his thigh a steady weight. Keith considers pulling away and tenses his leg, but doesn't move.

“I'm sorry,” James repeats. “That must have been really hard.”

“It was a long time ago,” Keith says, and his throat burns.

James’ leg is unnaturally warm in the cold air. It makes Keith shiver.

James turns toward him, appraising. Keith wishes he wouldn't look at him like that, like he knows Keith isn't telling him something. Like he actually wants to know what it is.

Keith thinks he knows what James wants to ask. He thinks that he wants to know how he could've shared a classroom with Keith since they were ten years old and somehow not know this fundamental part of him. James must wonder how he's kept himself such a secret.

But what was there to say? His dad died, the state put him in a group home when no other kin could be found, and then they made him change schools to be closer to it. Kids don't tell that kind of stuff to other kids, Keith thinks. Or maybe they do and Keith was just too broken to know. It doesn't make any difference.

Keith desperately hopes James doesn't hold it against him.

He holds his breath and waits for the tight feeling in his stomach to pass before he looks up. Whatever James wants to ask him never comes. He holds James’ gaze steady for a second, unsure of what to do or say next. He watches as James’ tongue darts out to lick his lips, just a little. Something about the gesture, its unselfconsciousness, gives Keith courage.

“Think you'll make fighter?” he asks. James’ eyes widen at first but then he smiles, and Keith imagines that he can make out a flush on his cheeks. It makes Keith's face burn, but it’s not bad. He thinks he might like this feeling, the tense gnaw in his stomach turned to a gentle flutter. He imagines holding James’ hand and is grateful that the darkness obscures the deep shade of red his face has taken on.

“I dunno, I mean, I think so? I want to,” James says. He bumps his shoulder into Keith's, presses more of his warmth against him. “I'm sure you're not worried.”

Keith shrugs. He knows he will, knows that he really can outfly almost anyone on base, but something keeps him from saying it. Instead, he drops his head to lean on James’ shoulder. He hears the small, sharp breath as James registers the contact and almost panics, fears he's pushed too far, but then he feels James’ shoulder go a little slack under his cheek.

“Me and Shiro are gonna take the hoverbikes out soon,” Keith says, almost a whisper. “If you want to come.”

-

James’ arms are tight around his middle as they whiz through the first lines of outcrops that border the Garrison. The midmorning sun is bright; it warms Keith’s face as much as James’ chest against his back, his breath against his ear. Some part of him still can’t believe he’d convinced James’ to ride with him. They’re down to one bike right now and Keith was sure that James wouldn’t want to go if he couldn’t drive his own.

Keith wouldn’t have blamed him. Nothing comes close to the way Keith feels on the bike, the sense of freedom and wildness that makes him feel like anything is possible. He may not be allowed to fly real ships yet, but this isn't a bad approximation - the controls are the same but here, no one tells him what to do. It's the only time he really gets to leave the base, trade the Garrison and Iverson and every expectation for the stacks and buttes and fond memories of the desert. Last fall, Shiro had taken him out for the first time and challenged him to a race he could never win. Keith’s competitive side hadn’t gotten the better of him for once - he’d been too in awe of Shiro’s ability and too grateful for his friendship. Remembering that first ride makes something in his chest go tight.

James had gone out with them, too. Not the first time, but soon enough. Keith usually feels protective of his time with Shiro, but it was never hard to welcome James into it. He still isn’t sure why, even after half a year. It’s just always been easy, once he let James in. All he had to do was stop fighting him.

Today, Shiro isn’t with them. It’s Saturday but he’s got all day meetings in preparation for Kerberos; they're within a year of launch and preparations have entered their final stages. Keith pushes the thought aside - he tries not to think about what life will be like while Shiro is gone.

They land out on the edge of a mesa. Keith takes the old military backpack that once belonged to his dad from James and pulls out a water bottle, takes a long swig. He feels like he’s been runnning laps.

James pops off his helmet and shakes his bangs free.

“Why’d you wear that thing? Nothing’s gonna happen,” Keith laughs.

“Safety first, cadet,” James admonishes, smiling. He rests the helmet on the seat of the bike and takes the water bottle. Keith watches as he takes a long pull, tries not to watch too intently as his nascent Adam’s apple bobs.

They spread out a blanket on the red ground and James quizzes him for a while. They go over flashcards, review equations. Keith makes James conjugate Spanish verbs and identify constellations in the black and white starcharts that every cadet has pinned to the corkboard above their desk. Before long, both of their stomachs are grumbling, and Keith can’t stop himself from laughing when James’ gives a particularly loud squelch. 

“Sandwich?” Keith asks, gesturing toward the pack. James briefly feigns indecision.

“I guess,” he sighs. Keith all but pelts the sandwich at James and they both laugh.

“Don’t test me, Griffin,” Keith says.

“You can get back at me in sparring,” James says around a mouthful of turkey and mustard.

After that, they eat in companionable silence for a while. It’s getting hotter but it’s not intolerable yet. The air smells like the spring longing for summer, a time in the desert that feels crisp without the dust that the high winds of June bring. Summers have been hard for Keith since his dad died, but he thinks this one might be different. He’s transitioning out of childhood and into youth, a long length of life stretched out before him. The possibilities are as vast as the desert.

“Did you ever come out here to watch launches when you were a kid?” James asks. He's picking through a bag of chips and nibbles in between sentences. “My parents would never let me skip school for it, but I always wanted to.”

Keith fumbles with a pebble, tossing it away. He smiles at the ground. “Yeah, my dad would always take me. We used to stargaze a lot, too,” he says. It takes a second, but Keith continues. “We’d go up on the roof of our house to do it - we had this awesome telescope. He knew all the constellations and he’d make up these stories about them?” Keith shakes his head, huffs. “When I was little I thought he knew everything.”

“Your dad sounds really cool,” James says. He’s tipped his head a bit, like he’s trying to tilt his gaze under Keith’s bangs, like he wants Keith to look him in the eye.

“He was,” Keith says. He looks up at James, then. He considers him. He’s starting to get a bit of stubble around his chin and upper lip, unlike Keith, who suspects he’ll look twelve on his deathbed. His jaw is sharp at the bolt and his lips seem strangely honest. Keith doesn’t know why he thinks that, specifically. But James’ mouth turns up a little at each corner without irony or malice, and it makes Keith trust him. Even James’ edges are soft.

“He really was,” Keith says again. He feels a surge of warmth even as his throat tightens. From there, he can’t stop himself. He tells James about how he never knew his mom, how his dad never said much about her. He describes the farmhouse, the goats and the sheep they kept, the way his dad had to wrangle the goddamn goats at least once a day after they inevitably climbed the fence. He tells him about his first days of school, about show and tell and how he knew when he was seven that he wanted to be a pilot. Eventually he gets to the part where his dad runs into a burning building and doesn’t come back. By the end, Keith is so surprised at himself that he almost can’t stop. He takes a deep breath.

“So, yeah,” he says, voice a little strangled. He pushes the heel of his hand against his cheek to stem the tears.

James doesn’t say anything. For a moment, Keith is paralyzed with embarrassment. He’s not sure where any of this came from.

He feels the panic start to boil up at his sides. He’s never told anyone, not even Shiro, all of this before.

But then he remembers leaning against James on the roof and how badly he wanted to touch him. He thinks of all the things he’d wanted to say then and since but never had the courage for. He feels torn open. He wants to be brave.

This time, Keith takes James’ hand. His skin is soft, fingertips just slightly rough-edged from starting shop class this semester. The feeling of James’ skin against him, even in this small way, makes Keith’s heart beat hard and fast. It's a dull, insistent thud against his ribs.

He stares at their hands for a minute. He admires the way James’ fingers are a little wider than his, the way they press against his knuckles. Keith had only reached out, only taken his hand. But James, he’s tangled their fingers together, pressed his palm firm against Keith's. James is the one squeezing tight, pulling them together.

It feels good, Keith thinks, to be so well interpreted.

James holds his hand in the hot sun and it occurs to Keith that this is what family can feel like. This closeness, this small intimacy. It’s an embarrassing thought - too much, too deep, too fast. But he lets himself feel it anyway, lets himself be soft and permeable. He wants to crack his chest open, to give himself over. For the first time in his life, he wants to be known.

He finally looks up. James is smiling at him and it takes Keith a second to register the ache in his cheeks, but he’s smiling, too.

“Hey,” James says.

“Hey yourself,” Keith smiles. He jostles against James and he remembers leaning on his shoulder on the roof again. He thinks about how his stomach twisted. This time, he decides to lean in.

Keith can’t remember what he imagined this would be like, but he knows that this is better. James’ lips are soft and give easily under Keith’s. It’s sweet and simple, mouths closed, even as James pulls away and moves back in.

Keith doesn’t know what to do now that he's crossed this boundary, and he almost freezes. But like James holds his hand, confident and gentle, he reaches to cup Keith’s jaw, pull him in close. He opens his mouth a little - it’s not insistent. It’s just enough to nip at Keith’s lower lip before he pulls away. He rests his forehead against Keith's.

“Thank you for telling me about your dad,” James says. He squeezes his hand, caresses Keith’s cheek.

For a moment, Keith doesn’t know what to say. He feels enormously grateful and terrified. If James can draw this out of him, what else is he capable of? Maybe it doesn’t matter, Keith thinks. Maybe all that matters is that James is here, that his hand is gentle against Keith’s jaw. Maybe the most important thing is that James kissed him back, that James wants him here.

“Thank you for listening,” Keith says. It seems right. He squeezes back. James’ eyes are clear as he blinks.

“Of course,” James says. It’s not casual. He doesn’t say the words like they’re nothing. James wants to be here, Keith knows absolutely. It sets his heart beating wildly.

“Is it okay if I kiss you again?”James asks. Keith is dumbfounded for a second. The answer seems so obvious: he wants to feel as close to James as he can.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, “please.” James smiles at him, then. 

Keith’s insides light up at the second touch of James’ lips. He still doesn’t feel particularly confident, but the initial nervousness gone. Now, he can kiss James like he wants. He doesn’t know what the steps are, how he should move his lips and tongue. He tries to make it good, bites a little, chases James’ lips when he comes up for air. It occurs to him that James probably doesn't know any better than he does, and it helps.

They fall backward on the blanket and James keeps kissing him. Keith moans - this is nothing like he’s ever felt before, this earnest, heavy want. He moves to kiss at James’ jaw and when James’ breathing speeds up, his hands tense on Keith's biceps, he knows he needs to stop. Still, he smiles as he pulls away.

“Will you promise to stop breaking formation, now?” James asks when he catches his breath.

Keith leans in to kiss the tip of his nose. James laughs, blushes. Keith runs his fingers through James’ hair and smiles.

He says, “I think I can manage.”

James smiles, just a small, private grin, and Keith shuffles closer to tuck his face into James’ shoulder. He breathes soft against James’ neck and tentatively brings a hand up to rest on James’ chest, so much broader than his own. He pulls idly at the seam on his uniform and lets his mind wander into fantasies he has no basis for yet, of his hands underneath James’ shirt, of how gentle James’ hands would be against his hips. Keith huffs a little laugh to himself, embarrassed. Instead of pulling away in shame he shuffles closer, presses against James’ side.

“How long have you, um,” James starts, pauses, clears his throat, “How long have you wanted to do that?”

“To do what?” Keith asks. He props himself up on one elbow to look down at James. It occurs to him then that James is beautiful. He’s known it for a long time, he thinks, but he never thought to use that word.

“To kiss me, punk,” James laughs, leaning up toward Keith’s lips.

“Hm,” Keith starts, “I dunno, you’ll have to be more specific,” he says and bends to meet James, gives him a quick, dry peck. “I’ve wanted to do that for about ten seconds,” he says, then moves to mouth at James’ jaw. He pulls back, waits until James opens his eyes. “And that? For about three weeks, probably.”

James smiles and says, “Is that so?”

”Mhm,” Keith starts again, kisses James’ forehead, his ear, moves back to his mouth to kiss him for real this time. He opens his mouth against James’ lips, silently begs until James' tongue touches his. Keith is surprised at his own boldness, at how confident he feels now. This is where he’s supposed to be, he knows, pressed against James and sharing first kisses, opening up and finding each other in between.

“And that?” James asks when Keith finally pulls away. Keith can feel James’ heart beating next to his, hard but slower now.

“Since that night on the roof,” Keith admits, “Maybe longer.”

James smiles up at him and runs a thumb over his cheek, like he’s trying to soothe away Keith’s blush.

“Guess we have some time to make up for, then,” James says, voice pitched low into something just above a whisper. Even though they’re alone, Keith knows it’s a voice meant only for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs for this chapter: [stray italian greyhound](https://youtu.be/QLySk3i4dFI) / [the predatory wasp of the palisades](https://youtu.be/pBMwwJMkcRA)


	3. Chapter 3

Keith runs.

It doesn't occur to him to have a destination. He's unthinking as he runs to the small hangar where they keep the bikes, doesn’t know what he’s doing as he hits the switch that opens the huge door on the far side. He floats somewhere above himself as he opens the little compartment underneath the bike seat and gets the key fob. It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense.

He hears someone shout from across the hangar, doesn’t really register the words or who said them. All he knows is that he has to go right now, before anyone else sees him or tries to talk him down or tell him that they’re sorry, they’re so sorry, they never thought -

“Keith!” He hears his name this time. It makes him angry, sets something irrational on fire in his belly. There are footsteps echoing now, too, the sound of someone approaching fast. They say his name again and he fumbles with the fob, tries to get it into the receiver. His hands are shaking.

“Keith,” the voice repeats, softer now. He feels a hand on his shoulder and then James is spinning him around to face him.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Keith doesn’t have an answer. He shrugs and doesn’t look up from his shoes. He feels a gentle hand on his face, smoothing back his hair and tilting his chin up. He still doesn’t say anything as James looks into his eyes, searching.

He starts to tremble and suddenly there are tears on his face. His breath is coming too fast and he can’t tell what’s happening to his body, doesn’t know what to do or say or if he should acknowledge that yes, he can hear James, just barely, over the humming in his head.

“Keith, I’m so sorry,” James says and reaches for him, tries to pull him into a hug. It sets off something in him and he tries to fight him off, deflects the embrace like he’s blocking a punch. James keeps going, though, grabs Keith by the wrists to push his arms against his chest and pin them. He gets his arms around him then and Keith lets out a long wail into his shoulder.

It hurts his throat. He screams again and James holds him, runs his hands over his back. He tries to push James away, tries to get enough distance between them so that he can beat his hands on his chest or his thighs, try to make himself feel anything that’s not searing grief.

James holds him tighter.

Suddenly, Keith realizes that he’s sobbing all over James’ uniform. It’s soaked through with tears and snot and Keith has a brief moment of lucidity when he registers that James might not have a clean spare, that he might get in trouble for this tomorrow. It’s enough to make him feel real again, at least a little.

He starts to come down after another minute. His hands are still shaking and when he tries to speak, his throat clicks. He has to swallow a few times before he can get a word out but when he tries again, he doesn’t know what to say. Words don’t mean anything; if they did, no one would ever use _pilot error_ to describe anything that touched Shiro. They would know better, if words meant anything.

Keith wraps his arms around James and it finally makes the vice he has around his rib cage relax. After a beat, he pulls away just enough to look at James’s face. His eyes are red rimmed like he’s been crying, too, and it makes Keith feel something he can’t name. He’s not sure if he’s angry, if he thinks that James doesn’t have a right, or if he’s relieved that someone else hurts. He leans into the latter. He knows Shiro wouldn’t want him to be alone right now, even if he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to heed it.

James knocks his forehead against Keith’s, puts his hands on either side of his face, and cries. It starts Keith crying again and he thinks he can feel his heart breaking in his chest, finishing the job it started when Iverson sat him down in his office and closed the door. He imagines the way the chambers would drift apart and shatter, how they would leave little shards in his lungs that would fester and ache. It would explain the pain beneath his sternum. 

Keith realizes his knees are still quivering and he’s fighting to keep himself upright. He doesn’t want to lean too much on James, doesn’t know how James is still standing, anyway, so they sink to the floor in between two bikes. He realizes then that he’s never going to race Shiro again, that he’ll never get to show him when he finally masters the cliff dive. Keith starts choking again when he reads the number on Shiro’s bike and thinks, _That’s not Shiro’s anymore._ Dead people don’t own things. He buries his face in James’ shoulder so that he doesn’t have to look at it.

He listens to the unsteady, hiccuping breath in James’ chest, feels his fingers in his hair. He wants to be grateful that James came and found him, wants to feel less lonely than he does. Instead he feels hollowed out.

He wants to go back to months ago, to the memory of watching the launch with James. His heart ached that Shiro would be gone but he had been filled with wonder watching the thrusters fire, at how tightly James’ gripped his hand. It feels like a dream, now, like some far away thing that he only ever imagined. In his memory everything is soft focused and haloed and if he tries hard enough he can see Shiro in the cockpit, his brow a little wrinkled in concentration, barely concealing the overwhelming joy of it. He tries to remember the way Shiro smelled when they'd hugged goodbye on the launchpad and convinces himself that he can remember the combination of his skin and standard issue detergent perfectly. The clarity of the memory makes James seem less real, makes him feel detached and floating like James isn't clinging desperately to him on the floor of the auxiliary hangar.

Overcome with an urgent rage, he pushes James off of him. He tries not to look at him, knows his face is crumpling.

“I’m sorry - I can’t,” Keith tries to explain what he’s feeling, what he’s doing, but he has no coherent thought to give; he’s a jumbled mess of panic and grief and anger. James’ face is a mess of tears and incomprehension.

“Keith please, don’t,” James begs as Keith climbs up to sit on the bike. Keith tries not to look at him. He doesn’t say anything else before he revs the engine to life.

“Keith!” James is screaming now, clinging to his leg and the footrest. “You can’t just do this! You can’t just disappear!”

Keith’s chest is tight. He doesn’t feel anything anymore. He’s dimly aware that he shouldn’t kick James too hard as he shakes him off, but it’s barely enough. He feels his heel connect with James’ shoulder in a viscious thrust and his chest seizes up completely, like he can’t breathe. He turns back one last time and sees James, aghast and broken on the hard floor.

“I’m so sorry, James, I love you, I’m sorry, I -” he says but he doesn’t think James hears him over the roar of the engine from where he lays on the floor. Then he’s kicking the thrusters and before he realizes the weight of what he’s doing, he’s through the hangar door.

Outside, the air is harsh. The desert is not welcoming. It’s cold and dry and the wind blows sand into Keith’s’ face. His eyes sting with tears and grit and he realizes then that he forgot his goggles and that there’s no turning back. He surges on ahead without destination. The landscape oozes past him like it always has, the dunes and rocks gone grey without moonlight. Even as his breathing steadies, he tries and fails not to think of Shiro. The landscape is too lunar and it’s too easy to imagine him alone and dying five hundred million miles away.

He rides and rides and he doesn’t know how much time has passed when he finally arrives at the shack that his dad used to lease to hunters. They came once or twice a year, reckless men after Coues deer and bighorns and Keith thinks it should at least have a thin mattress or a even just a dusty floor. He doesn’t know why he’s here except that there was nowhere else to end up.

He can’t go back to the Garrison, not with what he knows about what happens when someone you love dies. People worry about you. They make you go to counseling. They fill out assessments and scales and ask you endless questions; they drill your grief down to numbers and diagnostic criteria. You go from being yourself to a shadow of the dead and people treat you like glass. No one looks at you the same and without Shiro, Keith knows he will never come back from that.

He walks into the shack and feels a brief sense of relief when he sees the cot. He collapses, then, too tired to even cry anymore. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling as an inexplicable wave of calm washes over him. Something about the space settles Keith. It’s difficult to describe or name, but he has a sense that Shiro is still out there, somehow. If Keith can exist here, in this place and this time, then why shouldn’t he be? Whatever happened, it wasn’t pilot error. His grief shifts further into anger that anyone would accuse Shiro of something like that, and his resolve to stay away from the Garrison hardens at the thought. After a while, he settles into the empty feeling that floods his body and sleeps.

Months later, as he sets the nitroglycerin charges along the security fence, he thinks of his dad. The explosions are as awesome as he’d promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [map of the falling sky](https://youtu.be/oexZbzxgdYI) / [rebel heart](https://youtu.be/8LE6veTNORI)
> 
> the next chapter is much, much happier, i promise.


	4. Chapter 4

Shiro's frame darkens the doorway after visiting hours are over. Keith smiles.

“Look at you, rebel,” he says. It hurts his head to laugh but he does, his smile bright in the dim light.

Shiro rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. His face is lit by the prosthetic anchor and it makes him look almost ethereal as it bathes him in blue light. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess I'm a little too used to being in charge now.” For once he's not in uniform - instead he wears grey sweats, the standard issue hoodie cut off at one sleeve and unzipped to reveal a simple white undershirt. It makes him look so much younger, like he could be any twenty-six year old on a jog or returning from class, if it weren’t for the obviously alien technology attached to his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, approaching Keith. He sits on the far end of the bed, next to his feet.

“Honestly? Really good,” Keith says. And he does - despite the headache that comes and goes and the bruises healing on his ribs, he feels good. There's a lightness he hasn't felt in years coursing through his chest, like anything is possible, like he has a future he can see. As he fell through the sky in Black, he knew that he was going to die. He thought he was ready. But then he had woken up in the hospital and seen his mother's face and he had never been so grateful to be wrong. Waking up on Earth, seeing his family - it had renewed some part of him, made him feel glad and full where he only felt emptiness before.

“What about you?” he asks. Shiro smiles and runs a hand over the back of his neck. From this angle Keith can only see one side of his small smile.

“I’m okay,” he says. He turns to face Keith. “You know how it is. Lots of briefings, lots of orders, lots of people needing lots of things. I brought you these,” he continues, reaching for his bag. Then he pulls out a box of peanut butter cookies and Keith laughs as he takes them.

“Oh my god,” he says, “Thank you so much. I’ve eaten so much oatmeal and broccoli lately, you have no idea. I guess it’s all that grows in, you know,” he gestures toward the outside, “a post-apocalyptic wasteland, or something.”

“Technically it’s not post-apocalyptic. We avoided that,” Shiro says. He’s smiling but his voice is quiet. “Also, they’re ration-grade, don’t get too excited.”

“Still,” Keith shrugs, tearing into the package. They sit together while Keith munches on a few cookies. Shiro casually rubs at Keith’s shin and ankle while he talks about his day, about how he nodded off in a one-on-one with Iverson and how Veronica and Allura have almost mapped out all of Atlas’ new structures. Shiro’s hand is warm through the blanket and Keith feels at peace, even with peanut butter stuck in his teeth. There’s something to this he can’t pinpoint, a casual intimacy that he hopes Shiro knows he appreciates.

“What about you?” Shiro asks.

“What about me?” Keith cocks his head to one side. It feels like his brain rattles against his skull and he winces.

“How was your day?” Shiro says.

“Well,” Keith laughs, “I successfully showered by myself, which was nice, you know, to get an ounce of dignity back. I slept a lot. Lance brought me some sort of alien soap opera or something and I watched like, eight episodes. I have no idea what it’s about.” He shoves another cookie in his mouth while Shiro laughs. His hand is almost tight around Keith’s ankle.

“Oh man,” Shiro says, “when are they gonna let you out of here, anyway?”

Keith grins. “Well, I was thinking,” he starts to say, exaggerating the mischievous lilt he knows Shiro won’t be able to resist. He lets the pause linger for effect. Shiro squeezes his ankle impatiently.

“Maybe you could bust me out?” Shiro narrows his eyes and Keith clarifies, “Just for tonight.” He tucks the cookies into the nightstand, dusts his hands off on the thick hospital quilt. “I haven't felt a breeze since I almost died.” Shiro lifts his eyebrows and Keith can't help it, he laughs again. “I'm sorry,” he says, “I'm just glad to be here. I missed Earth. I didn't think I did.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says with a small smile, “as long as I'm being a rebel, I think we can sneak out. Can you walk?”

“Probably. Might need help, though,” Keith says. He reaches over and jostles the stand that holds up his IV. Shiro keepings smiling as he stands and holds a hand out for Keith. Keith reaches for it and pulls himself upright and teeters for a moment, his legs unsteady after weeks in bed. He steadies himself with a hand on Shiro's chest; he can feel the dip of his sternum between the muscle and it makes his stomach flip. 

After he regains his balance, Shiro steps toward the door, looks left to right down the hall.

“You're sure no one will be by to check on you?”

Keith shakes his head. “They came by an hour ago and I'm down to a four hour rotation. Besides,” he smiles, sticks out his tongue a bit through his teeth, “I'm the leader of Voltron. I do what I want.” Shiro laughs and shakes his head as he steps into the hallway. Keith wraps a blanket around his shoulders, slides his feet into the hospital slippers, and follows.

He mimics Shiro, crouching just slightly as they make their way through the wide hallways that lead outside, his IV dragging beside him. The nurse's station is on the opposite side of the unit and there’s almost no one left in his wing; he feels reasonably sure that no one will catch them, but he still cringes as the wheels on the IV squeak.

They make their way down a long hallway lit only by dim LEDs along the floor. As they turn a corner, Keith pauses. He watches Shiro walk ahead a few yards, the soft light from the floor casting him all in grey. His body has changed so much since Keith met him but his gait is still so recognizably his own - his long, confident steps unhindered by their sneaking. Keith watches as he goes still for a second, and then he turns to face Keith, beckoning him forward like they’re doing recon on an enemy ship. They make the last turn toward the exit together.

The desert is cold at night. They don't go far, stopping at one of the far sidewalks that lead from the hospital to one of the administrative buildings. Shiro helps Keith lower himself to sit down, managing the tug of his IVs. Once he’s settled, Keith looks up and closes his eyes, pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders.

“God, I love this place,” Keith says.

After a beat Shiro says, “Really?” Keith cracks one eye open and takes in Shiro’s apparently genuine surprise.

“The desert is the closest thing to space,” Keith says, like it’s obvious. “I didn’t like the Garrison but I always assumed I’d live in the desert forever. If I was on Earth, anyway.” He turns to face Shiro, feels the breeze tug at his hair.

“Huh,” Shiro says. “I don’t know why I didn’t know that about you.” Keith shrugs. He scoots a little closer to Shiro, nudges him with his shoulder.

“I bet there are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says. He tries to make it light, wants to be joking, but Shiro doesn’t smile or laugh. Instead he looks down and pulls at the laces on his sneakers like a toddler.

“I've,” Shiro starts. He's nervous, Keith suddenly realizes, even though he's not sure he's ever seen Shiro nervous about anything before. He looks up and squints into the moonlight before he tries to speak again.

“I had a lot of time to think, you know, on the way back,” he says. Keith nods. The trip had provided more time for self-reflection than he had necessarily been comfortable with.

“And I just. Things have changed so much. I feel like a different person. I barely remember who I was when we left.” His voice is halting, unsure. He still won't look at Keith.

Keith feels something in his stomach wrench tight. His face is suddenly hot like an anxiety attack or a fever, the heat crawling up his neck. Suddenly the wind picks up again and it blows his hair away from his face. His whole body cools and something about it calms him down, like this place where he grew up is reaching out to him, wrapping him up and telling him that things are okay. He still can't tell what direction this is going, but he lets himself feel a tentative flicker of hope. Shiro takes a deep breath.

“I look at you now, too, and I don't see the little kid that I met, god, I don't even know how long ago,” he says. Keith smiles. He tries to telegraph his fondness.

“Well, I think it's something like eight years ago on Earth, four years ago for you, and five or six for me?” Keith counts off on his fingers, laughing. “I'm not sure. Time is sort of fake, if you ask me. How do you measure the passage of time on the astral plane, anyway? Oh God,” he gasps, “what about your birthday? How old even are you?” he laughs, runs a hand over Shiro's shoulder.

Shiro huffs and Keith watches as his jaw tenses, as his throat moves to swallow. He keeps his hand where it landed on Shiro's back, the steady heat of it a comfort.

“However long it's been, I just, I look at you, and I see someone so different. You're still you, but you've been through so much. _We've_ been through so much. And,” he takes a deep breath then, closing his eyes like he's steeling himself. “You've become such an amazing man, Keith. I wouldn't be here if not for you.” 

Keith warms under the acknowledgement. He won't let himself admit where he hopes this conversation is going, won't articulate it precisely, but hope is an indulgence he craves. What risk is there, he figures, in wanting something good after everything that's happened? It's a free fall that he's sure ends in a safety net, a huge inflatable cushion.

“Shiro,” he says, “I-”

“Please, let me finish,” Shiro interrupts. He blows out a big breath and looks up, blinking. Keith almost thinks he can see tears and a wave of unbearable sadness crashes over him. Doesn't Shiro know? Isn't it obvious? 

“I wanted to tell you that you mean so much more to me than I ever imagined,” Shiro says. His voice cracks like it hurts him to speak. Keith has never felt the urge to comfort someone as desperately as he wants to comfort Shiro right now. It's a bizarre juxtaposition - he feels so happy to be here with Shiro, to be near him and hear his voice and to not be at war. Shiro shouldn't be allowed to feel anything but joy right now, Keith decides.

Slowly, he pushes on his shoulder to turn Shiro's body toward him. He reaches toward him with this other hand, and for a brief moment he can't decide where to put it or what touch will convey his meaning. He thinks back to James, a lifetime ago, how holding his hand had felt right. Except this time, Shiro already knows him, knows all his sharp edges and messy parts. He has nothing to reveal and everything to give.

It doesn't feel like a risk when he takes Shiro's hand and pulls him into his arms. It's awkward with the IV tubes trailing from his left forearm - they snag against Shiro's clothes. He feels Shiro go tense and trails a hand up his spine and back down again, soothing. 

“I'm sorry,” Shiro says.

“I'm right here,” Keith says. He wants to laugh at how utterly wrong Shiro is getting all of this but his hands are fisted in the blanket around Keith's shoulders and his breathing is unsteady. He heaves a massive sigh and then Keith's neck is damp. Shiro shakes in his arms.

He shouldn't, but Keith feels relief. He feels ecstatic. For once he has the power to not just save Shiro but to make him feel good. It makes him giddy, the chance to be tender like this. He wants to make the most of it. 

“I think this is where I end up,” Keith whispers against Shiro's temple. He feels Shiro’s whole body go tense and he fights back the urge to laugh and cry and shake him by the shoulders. He does his best to memorize this moment, the prickle of Shiro's short hair against his lips, the way Shiro clings to his arms. “Right here,” he says, hugging him to his chest. “I think I've known for a while.” It feels good to say it, to be sure. He feels so happy he wants to sob and has to take a deep breath to steady himself. Shiro's eyes are wet when he finally pulls away.

Shiro barks a laugh. He sniffles and wipes the back of his hand under his nose. Keith thinks about teasing him for it but then Shiro is smiling in a way Keith thinks he hasn't seen in years and it's blinding. Keith's heart seizes up with something like joy.

“Yeah?” he says. It's not disbelief in his tone but he sounds light, like there's a bouy beneath his lungs.

“Yeah,” Keith nods and suddenly he can't help it, there are tears on his cheeks and he's laughing. He lets go of Shiro's hand but only to hold his face, bring him close.

“I love you so much,” he says, unhesitating, and when he can't stop laughing he has just enough presence of mind to wonder if he's ruining the moment until Shiro is laughing, too, and leaning into Keith's touch. 

“I don't know, I don't know when it started,” Shiro says between sniffles, “Just, suddenly I couldn't imagine my life without you.” He pauses for a second. “I love you too, I mean,” he says, and then he's laughing hard, wet face against Keith's palm.

Keith brushes one hand through Shiro's hair to land on the back of his head and says, “Come here.”

He pulls Shiro toward him until their foreheads touch and the tips of their noses brush against one another. Shiro looks up at him through sticky eyelashes and a million images flash through his head. He thinks of watching launches with his dad, of the moment he knew what he would do with his life; he remembers the free fall of the first time he fell in love, how good it felt to be seen, to mean something to someone, and how he realized after Shiro came back the last time that his feelings had been plummeting toward this moment for years. He imagines the way the Caste of Lions collapsed in on itself, of the bright explosion, and how its remnants gave life to Atlas - how it feels like everything, every hurt and loss and joyful moment, has been leading to this.

Shiro's lips are salty with tears. Keith is still laughing, giddy with relief, and Shiro kisses his teeth a couple of times before it brings him down enough to fully kiss back. His heart feels full to bursting at the soft feeling of Shiro's lips against his, at the gentle hand cradling his jaw. He pulls away just enough to nip at Shiro's bottom lip, drag his lips over the end-of-the-day stubble on his cheek.

The desert doesn't feel so cold with Shiro almost fully wrapped in the blanket with him. Keith arranges their bodies so that he can lean with his head on Shiro’s shoulder and sighs.

After a moment, Keith hears Shiro mumble something. He turns his head to look at him.

“What?” Keith says. 

“I wasn’t ready to stop kissing you yet,” Shiro smiles. He bites his lip and looks down at Keith through dark eyelashes.

“Oh yeah?” Keith says. His face hurts from smiling and he can’t help it, he clambers into Shiro’s lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [atlas](https://youtu.be/OJas9gEhZsU) / [don't just sit there](https://youtu.be/BkWyxojPldE)


End file.
